


Will the Real Joker Please Stand Up?

by hannicole



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Joker (2019), The Batman - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arthur has a bad time, Crossover, Explosions, Gotham's in trouble, High Stakes, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Joker Spoilers, Jokerverse, Movie: The Dark Knight (2008), Rivalry, Tension, Violence, joker vs joker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannicole/pseuds/hannicole
Summary: Arthur's changed, and so has Gotham.As Arthur Fleck languishes in the confines of Arkham, his status as a symbol for the downtrodden lives on. When another clown of the same name attempts to seize the streets, he finds his every maneuver overshadowed by those of his predecessor. The Joker resolves to establish himself as a solo act.This is a crossover with The Dark Knight's Joker taking place in the universe of the 2019 Joker following the events of the film.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 95





	1. Will the Real Joker Please Stand Up?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever published work, cross-posted from Tumblr where I write under arthuronfleck.

Time meant something once. 

It was a cruel, unrelenting force that brought with it infinite melancholy and the promise of worse things yet to come. It was the pendulum that kept the monotonous rhythm of life, and though the only thing Arthur dreaded more than time was memory, there was a comfort in the steady cycle of day and night. No such thing existed in Arkham. In Arkham there was only consciousness and unconsciousness, and sleep meant little to Arthur, whom spent his waking hours in the same place, seeing the same unfriendly people, only knowing the world as what he could see from a narrow window. Even his dreams lost substance. A part of him would laugh inside, and wonder if anything had changed at all. The rest of him wept, knowing how much things indeed had changed, and how he loathed himself for not leaving when he could. He didn’t have enough life within him to attempt anymore. 

Such thoughts came between rounds of medication switched out before he could even know the names, although he knew the titles of each to be longer than the ones that came before. He’d been used to such a rotation but eventually it reached such a magnitude that it was unmanageable even for him. Eventually Arthur could peek beyond the haze, knowing it was more of a tranquilizer than a treatment. A particularly enthusiastic doctor meant something once, though Arthur couldn’t recall their name or why they’d meant anything at all, or even why they disappeared. Had they existed at all? Likely not; every time he thought of them, they had a new face. Whenever Arkham switched hands- the only guarantee of Arkham being that it _ would _\- a fresh batch of goons would appear, bloodthirsty and ready to enjoy the benefits of working in a place so desperate for bodies it would entertain any proposal, so long as it kept its inmates out of sight. That’s when the shocks would start, met with roaring laughter that almost sounded like applause. It felt like he was on stage once more, so eager had they been to watch him squirm and scream and tremble until a warm trickle ran down his leg. Every time. Theirs were the faces he remembered with perfect clarity. 

People had roamed the halls once, and Arthur would listen eagerly from his bed, curled on his stomach with his eyes closed. Now only the grunts roamed and when they talked it was only to one another. Arthur laughed for a long time, until he too grew silent. Everything was silent for a long time. Then all at once the world came alive. Sounds of people unlike anything he’d encountered before, like all of a sudden there was so much happening the place seemed to always be bursting at the seams. It seemed like the world remembered Arkham, but it was inconceivable that it would remember him as well. His name felt more like an abstract than an entity. None of it was enough to bring Arthur Fleck back from the dead, and so he lingered in the confines of catatonia. 

His body leaned back against the cinderblock, his dull green gaze set on the barred windows adjacent to the stiff bed. It offered a limited view of Arkham’s crumbling brick exterior, a sight so familiar his insides would relish any minuscule change. It was raining again, rhythmic pitter-patter against the window that’d developed a frosty film. It must’ve been winter. 

A pair of lanky legs crossed in their loose confines as Arthur’s cuffed hands rested in the center. He watched blackened rain droplets make their way down the frozen window, nothing in particular playing in his mind. Did he see snow? No; it would be slush at best by the time it hit the ground. What did the grounds outside of Arkham look like? Looking down, he could see only sterile linoleum. He couldn't recall anything else. His world began and ended between the same four walls of concrete and linoleum, with a cold metal door added as a fun addition. There was no need for a mailbox anymore; anything belonging to him found its way through the small slit in the door that only opened from the outside. Not that he received anything beyond pills and lukewarm food. 

Sometimes he felt something, but it was awful enough that he’d cry to feel nothing again. 

His head hit the cinderblock with force and once more as he choked on air. Then he heard another shove, more forceful like the closing of a door. And again. And again. 

A deafening silence fell over the place and Arthur felt at peace to loosen his posture. 

Rustling came from the other side of the metal door, like someone fumbling with a string of bells. It felt more like unreality than anything in recent memory; how long ago had he been sentenced to waste away here in utter solitude? More likely than not it was another inmate being summoned, perhaps even released. Or to be poked and prodded like lab rats. Better them than him, at least. But that wasn’t the case. 

That wasn’t the case at all. 

The door opened with a slow, prolonged creak. Arthur blinked. When his eyes opened the door remained ajar, and when he squeezed his ankle it was there too. He thought to summon his voice as he sat upright, hesitating. If this was a trap, he wouldn’t be the one to fall for it. 

The all-white uniform of Arkham’s staff that seemed nearly impossible to differentiate from that of the residents. However, neither inmates nor their reluctant keepers donned spatters of blood below the knee, and that was enough to put Arthur on edge. His brows knitted as a tightness grew in his chest, his fingers digging into the white material of his own scrubs. As his eyes lifted, he grew only more puzzled; a man of a tanned complexion, tall with a far more solid frame than Arthur could boast of, a pair of dark eyes—

—and nearly jumped out of his skin. 

It had the face of a man, at least mostly. The top half, with its heavy brows and dark eyes, stood out only for the vibrant green hair that framed it. It felt familiar. But as Arthur’s gaze lowered to take in the rest of him, he noticed protrusions about the man’s mouth. Raised flesh starting at the corners of his lips, stretching all the way to his cheeks. Arthur’s face contorted at the sight, lightened only a little when he noticed the questionably large gun half-hidden behind him. Arthur had never seen anything like it, and that much was painfully obvious. 

He spoke without meaning to, strained and sick. 

“Kill me.”

The man’s face contorted just as Arthur’s had, and a dismayed grunt let him know that it would at least take more than a pained request. 

“Please.”

“Get up.” His voice sounded more like a series of disjointed growls, confusing Arthur even further. 

“I don’t know what—”

_“UP!”_ Any semblance of patience seemed to burn out as he barked, gesturing the gun towards Arthur. The man pleading to be shot mere moments ago gave little in the way of a reaction to the threat. 

With another glance through the corridor, the man paced towards Arthur. If fear could genuinely grip him, in that moment it edged dangerously close. Not that the encounter would end with his death, rather that it would be a slow and horrific journey to get there. Then again, what had his life been if not horrific? A swell grew in Arthur’s throat as he struggled to vocalize to someone, anyone, what he’d endured for the past eternity—

The barrel of the gun collided with his head and he slumped over.

* * *

Arthur awoke to a peculiar sound. Maybe not an unusual sound at all, but something so distant and unfamiliar it might as well have been brand new. It took awhile for the world to become still enough to make sense of what was being said. When it did, he heard everything through screeching echoes and saw slivers of color through two large windows on small doors. 

_ “...In other news, U.S. forces have concluded a massive missile strike in Afghanistan in hopes of crippling the country's forces and driving back insurgents…” _

The words didn’t register, like meaningful words strung together to create something he couldn’t comprehend. He tried to roll over onto his side, grimacing in pain as he did so. Every time he tried to think a throbbing pain rang in his head. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he tried to bring his knees to his chest, the taste of something heavy and metallic growing stronger with every pained inhale. 

_ “...in response to the attacks several months ago Some are criticizing the States' continued involvement and the president himself, citing needless damages to civilians and military personnel—” _

Arthur heard a sharp _ crack _against the dashboard on the other side of the partition and the sound quickly scrambled. 

_ “It’s the holiday season, and Gotham residents are praying for a Christmas miracle to alleviate the tension in our city. We may be waiting until next year’s elections until we have someone who can curb these wannabe gang-bangers. Abnormal is becoming our new normal—" _

“Shut up!” An irate growl sounded from the driver’s seat, and Arthur couldn’t tell who he was shouting at. Either way, he ceased whatever movement he was attempting and merely gritted his teeth. 

The sounds changed once more, to a song Arthur had never heard. It was noisier than anything he would’ve listened to, hard as it was to recall what he enjoyed. His eyes focused on the blurring lights as they sped past. How long had it been since he’d seen color? Everything moving too quickly to discern but he couldn’t remember ever seeing a world so vivid. He could see little in the area he occupied, besides all the glistening of the cold metal in the moonlight. He could hear cars all around, and plenty of honking. 

_ “Oh, baby, don't care no more...I know this for sure,” _

Arthur took a sharp turn with the car, crying out as the restraints wore against his sore wrists. He shot a frustrated glare at the partition, deciding then if his life was forfeit he would decide what to do with it. Outstretching his already sizable legs, he began to kick at the metal doors of what must’ve been a van, growing louder with each gaining ounce of lucidity. 

_ “People, they don't understand...Your girlfriends, they can't understand,” _

“Hey, hey!” For the first time, Arthur’s rescuer seemed to speak not with aggression, but barely-restrained laughter. “If you knew where we’re going, you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get out!” 

_ “On top of this, I ain't ever gonna understand—” _

The radio shut off as soon as the van came to a screeching halt. Arthur heard feet scuffling against gravel for a short eternity until the doors swung open, sending in a gust of frigid air. Arthur could see his liberator- or captor, it seemed- taking labored breaths that created a small gust of vapor, the man himself illuminated by the street light apparently overhead. 

“Now,” The man began, hoisting himself into the van and stepping over Arthur’s willowy limbs. “Don’t take me for a snob, but I’ve got to say- we are in a bad neighborhood. So this could be rough.” 

Before Arthur could respond to the vaguely worrisome statement, a burlap sack found its way over his head.

Undoing the binding of whatever held the pipe that Arthur’s cuffs were caught on, he gripped the pipe himself and brought Arthur stumbling onto his knees. The sudden movement sent another shockwave of pain shooting through his skull. “And if you try screaming again, it’ll be worse.” 

The pipe acted like something of a dog leash, leading Arthur in whatever direction his captor wished. He heard the heavy swing of the door and found himself in a warmer albeit muggier space, able to practically taste the filth with every inhale. Without even seeing it, the decay brought back memories that belonged to another lifetime. With it came pain that escaped words, and when the sounds fell from his lips he felt a gloved hand collide with the back of his skull, sending out another yelp. 

“Why are you crying? Those lunatics spend their entire lives trying to do what I did for you on a slow weeknight!” 

Arthur wasn’t sure how to answer, feeling a chorus of strained thoughts rushing through his mind. He wanted to lay down as he’d been doing for years. It was hard to stay upright, not that his disjointed stagger could be considered proper. 

“My father walked home like that every night.” Despite there being no receptive audience, the man followed up his statement with a disarming laugh. “He’d make it through the door before he just fell out, sort of like,” Without warning, the man gripped Arthur by his scrubs and threw him onto the ground. His mostly-bare figure collided with the concrete, making him cry as his skin made contact. Before he knew it, his restrained wrists were being manipulated until they stayed hoisted against something. Something uncomfortably hot, something that set a panic deep inside of Arthur. The sack was carelessly ripped from him, and he could make out yet another dank, dreary room. There weren’t any windows save for a few directly below the ceiling, and he had to strain his eyes to see anything. 

Arthur could see that his captor was very pleased that he could see. 

* * *

The Joker stood in front of a dirty mirror, rubbing a menthol-scented oil into his skin. He shuddered as his fingers lightly grazed the scarred surface. His voice kept to a low hum, low enough to easily hear every happening on the other side of the wall. He wasn’t a man to lose himself in thought; his constant guard evaded the need for restful sleep, whatever new pains appeared or whatever passing fancy might’ve otherwise captivated him. Wherever the switch came from, the Joker was too far gone to turn it off. 

His fingers grazed the rusted metals cluttering the counter, searching until he touched a pair of panties haphazardly strewn atop it. He recoiled with a hiss, grabbing the garment and tossing it back towards the bathtub. Underneath like a hidden treasure were the Joker’s supplies- not his favorite, but the most appropriate for the occasion. Yanking off the unscrewed lid, he slapped a dollop of white makeup over his face, applying it to his face in rough, streaky strokes. With the white residue remaining, he found a nearly-emptied black can and continued. 

When he finished, he smoothed his hands over the lapels of his purple suit. His operation was funded by some of the most generous donors in Gotham, no matter how unwilling. He stood hunched over in his odd sort of posture, staring into his own black eyes on the other side of the mirror. Without warning, he turned to the door and sent it flinging outwards with a forceful kick. 

In the darkness he could see the figure in the corner curl in on itself, bringing a smile to his face- one that never really left. His gloved hand felt around for the switch until flicking it on, casting the room in a sterile, fluorescent light. If the Joker grimaced it was difficult to discern through the heavy black makeup. 

If Arthur feared him before, now he was terrified. 

A steady trickle of dried blood caked down his forehead from a gash buried somewhere beneath his dark curls, tears falling down his cheeks at the same pace as his quick, shallow breaths. Arthur felt something build inside of him, almost like he was slowly learning how it felt to be alive again. He didn’t like it. 

“Enough of that,” The Joker gestured at him. “I went to all that trouble for _ you _. Not some,” Grimacing, he delivered a soft kick if only to amuse himself with the soft yelp that escaped the smaller man’s lips. He fell against the radiator, alternating between sweating and shivering. “Limp pool noodle. I want the real Arthur Fleck.”

Hearing his name brought something of a presence back into Arthur’s eyes. Someone knew his name without introduction; that meant he must’ve been real. A complete stranger knew his name. All of a sudden his demeanor shifted to a silent curiosity as he loosened himself a bit, still bracing himself for another blow. 

“My name is Arthur, Arthur Fleck.” Arthur spoke quietly, taking in the other man. It felt unreal to say his name, like it wasn't his own. “What’s yours?”

“My name, yes. My name.” He spat the last word like venom, bringing an instinctive jump from Arthur. Letting out a pitiful tisk, Arthur’s captor lurched over him, black eyes meeting a fearfully inquisitive green. “I’m a twister, you know. I take this world as it is, boring and insufferable, and I twist it. To give it meaning.” He smiled wickedly at an irony his audience would never understand. “You see, when you decided to settle into your little hovel, you already changed things. No going back—” He leaned forwards. “They didn’t like the establishment, so they fought against it. Then a new one shows up and they just frolic towards it, like sheep to the slaughter.” Each phrase seemed to be pronounced with a gesture, only setting Arthur more on edge. “So the mobsters, these little gang-bangers who wanted to rule the world crying about their,” He rolled his eyes as he contemplated. “Rules. See, they had a plan for this city. They wanted a _ routine _.” 

The Joker grabbed hold of Arthur’s hand as it was restrained by the cuffs, beginning to slowly twist. “So I took their little routine,” He continued to twist, slow enough to make every second stretch into hours. “And I twisted it. I took their money, their guns, their goons,” He spat. “Their girls, sometimes. If she was into it.” A wide grin grew on his face, unnatural. “All of it with nothing. Nothing but a- simple dream. I twisted this city and I bent it over my knee.” 

Arthur’s brows furrowed in pained confusion, unable to process one word before the rest were thrown at him. “You don’t have to hurt me. I understand you without—” He grimaced at the other man’s grip. “—without all that.”

“Really?” He twisted more, until Arthur was certain his wrist would snap. Was everything supposed to remind him of Arkham?  
“I don’t think you do. You see,” He licked his lips. “I did all of that, but I couldn’t let them think I was a stranger to this place. God, no— these newcomers are a dime a dozen. I needed to show them I was one of a kind, and so I chose something they were familiar with. Maybe they chose me.” 

Speaking between Arthur’s pained cries, the Joker allowed a lingering moment of silence to pass until freeing the other man of his vice-like grip. “But no matter what I did, they always, always,” As his glare pierced through Arthur, he had to wonder if it was the radiator making him sweat so profusely. “Always had to bring you into it. They started every time with the comparisons and the whinging, expecting the same old routine! Here I was, having to hear story after story about how _ you _changed things when I was right there taking the city out from under their noses!” 

He licked his lips. “So I started a game. Every time someone brought you up, I shot them. But they kept coming. You were in this city even after they locked you up.”

Arthur couldn’t keep up, yet one sentiment echoed in his head. People remembered him. 

What good did that do?

At the same time, it brought a thrill. A reassurance of his existence, one not limited by the shortcomings of his imagination.

“Here I was, ready to be the enema Gotham deserves. But you just,” He let out a laugh. “You just wouldn’t get out. Those masks— they were everywhere. _ Mocking _me.” A disgusted anger infected a tone that had just seconds ago been jovial. So that became my new purpose; to show them all how gone you really were.”

“As I’m running in every direction, doing more than you ever did,” He cleared his throat, keeping himself just above Arthur. “I start to hear these rumors. About a giant bat who shows up just in time, ready to beat everyone to a pulp but never enough to finish them off. At first, you know— these thugs are never bright. They don’t know what they’re talking about. But I keep hearing about it, no matter how many guys I get rid of. So I get to thinking,” Eyeing the dried blood on Arthur’s face, he let out a low grumble. “Why don’t I find out for myself if this _ thing _ is real? I did everything I could— I had to kill a _ lot _of people. But I found my answer.”

Once more he cleared his throat. “So now the mobs are afraid, and it’s the cops who want a turn running things. Why not? No one did anything— no one had balls anymore!” He moved slowly forward. “So I took their new order, and I twisted it. I’m taking away their precious shield.” His voice lowered. “You’re going to help me.” 

“I can’t.” Arthur admitted sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” His voice was strained as he tried to keep his composure. “I was never supposed to get out of that place. I tried. I tried my entire life—” 

His story was ended before it could even begin. Before he could form his next word, he heard a hiss and all of a sudden felt a tight grip on his jaw. He thought it would crack. Worst of all, he felt a frigid cold against the corner of his lips. 

“We’re going to try this again,” Arthur’s captor licked his lips for the umpteenth time, all patience gone from his voice. “Now, I don’t think you listened to the first story. At all. So we’re going to try another one, okay? When I was,” He looked as if he was trying to remember. “Younger, I was a lot like you. I was small, skin and bones. But I was always good boy. Kept my head down, looked after my family, did what I could— what little I could— to make things just a little better. I wanted to leave this place better than it was when I wandered into it.” He kept the knife against Arthur’s lips, feeling the other man tremble beneath the blade. “So I was headed to work one day to do just that. I come across these,” He hesitated. “Men. They’re big and they’re mean, not friendly at all. They ask me what I’m smiling for. They did nothing different than I did, but they were miserable. So they start beating me up real bad and I’m begging them to stop.”

Arthur’s eyes were huge as the man continued, hot tears pooling against his cool gloves. 

“So one of them takes out a knife,” The Joker drew in a sharp breath. “ Just like this one. The others hold me down and he’s carving me up, and he asks me,” As the Joker’s grip threatened to push down Arthur could feel him trembling. “Why so serious?”

As the Joker went to move, he felt it. Slowly at first, then all at once. A sickly, shaking laugh. It felt strained yet unstoppable, building with an obnoxious moment. 

That was enough for the knife to fall, a satisfied smile on the Joker’s face as he watched Arthur collapse into a laughing fit. 

Standing up, he made his way across the room, broken glass crunching beneath his boots until he reached a metallic panel in the wall. The Joker gave it a good knock and soon it raised, a small array of masked goons waiting in a loose circle. 

Arthur strained to see them in the dark and through the blur of tears, although he could vaguely make out figures and masks. He could make out one, so gigantic he’d have to be blind to miss him. Another with honey-colored hair tied in a low ponytail, at least until they turned around and looked like any other masked figure. Another had no distinguishing features, save for the cartoonishly large gun they carried. Several others stood around, and Arthur had to laugh at the absurdity of it all- not that he had a choice at the moment. The old reflex had returned with a vengeance. 

Only laughed filled the otherwise deathly quiet space, echoing through the tall ceilings. 

“So about my name,” The purple figure spoke, turning to look at Arthur once more. “I am _ the _ Joker.” 

Without further regard, the Joker headed into the darkened room.

“Clean him up,” The Joker spoke to none in particular, knowing all of them would listen. “It’s time we treat our new friend to an early Christmas.” 


	2. Imitation Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning(s): this chapter is especially violent, so if that's not something you're comfortable with please skip!

“Arthur,” The man’s voice held no room for pleasantries. “What kind of person were you before the world taught you it was worth fearing?”

A walking thesis; that’s what he became since stepping foot into Arkham. Arthur had long lost any desire to remember the names of the white coats that came through one after the other, asking the same questions with the same incomprehensible words. Almost as if they’d forgotten how to speak to a person; or maybe it was Arthur who’d fallen out of personhood. All of them felt the same. Not this one. 

The lanky man was so bold as to  _ not _ fashion a coat. His black jumper was nothing to excite Arthur’s memory, and his dark hair, dark eyed appearance paired with bland features in just such a way that the only thing that stood out were weaknesses. Had it been only a few months prior, the man’s nose would’ve already been broken and Arthur would’ve been lunging for the nearest window if he hadn’t decided on an unguarded door. These sessions never ended well, but running made them worse. Arthur’s fingers dug into his white trousers while the other held tightly onto the only reason he hadn’t been dragged into this, bashing his head on any surface he could: nicotine. This one let him puff like a chimney. 

Arthur’s lips curved into a sweet smile as he studied the metal table. He brought the cigarette to his lips once more, taking a lengthy drag before exhaling a smooth breath of smoke. His expression flickered to disappointment when he flicked the ashes to reveal the cigarette neared its butt, and he had no more left. 

“Fear.” Arthur let out a deflated laugh once more releasing himself from his predicament. It felt like dreaming. He couldn’t conjure anything fantastical, and nothing pretty ever made it past the cinderblock, but he could find a crevice in his mind to hide from the noise. 

“You disagree with my conclusion, Arthur?”

“What do  _ you  _ fear, doc?” Arthur snapped back, rising from his self-imposed cage so quickly it seemed voluntary. He tossed the cigarette butt onto the dirtied tile. “I know. You’re thinking,” He let out a small, stifled laugh. “I’m going to get up and you’ll learn why none of you want to be anywhere near me.” 

“I didn’t take you for a tough guy.” The doctor retorted, unflinching.

“I’m not,” Green eyes met the dark pair looking back, defeat swelling in his tone. “I just have nothing to lose.” 

“Everyone fears something, Arthur, regardless of their predicament. It can begin small. Anxieties, really. Things like sex, swimming, flying- everyone encounters these things and statistically they’re bound to fear at least one.”

“Can’t fear what I never tried.”

“That’s the crux of fear, isn’t it? The unknown?” 

Arthur stomped on the fallen cigarette, smearing ash across the tile. He didn’t answer, nor did he move to assault the man- the most magnanimous course of action he was capable of. 

“However, I don’t believe your case is as simple as not knowing. Your fear metastasized beyond mundane anxiety, or even a complex phobia. It transcended any physical process- I’ve always believed the power of the mind is far greater than that of the body.” The doctor pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, taking a collective breath. “Whether it was because of what happened in your childhood, or something rooted in your day-to-day living, your mind couldn’t reconcile that fear. It splintered you into two separate entities. The Arthur Fleck I see now,” He cast a shamelessly judgement glare. “Is one-half. The half that learned to be afraid. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, any confrontation in your life set off a fear response.”

Arthur cocked a brow. 

“You felt powerless in your own life. To some extent, you were no different than any other loser struggling to make something of himself with no prospects to build from. There was no fight in you. Your flight had failed and every day you were in freefall; however, you did something miraculous. You fought midair. Halfway down it seemed that your body’s fight-or-flight response switched course. To some extent the death of your mother might’ve hastened your downfall-”   


“Downfall.” Arthur repeated with a half-laugh. 

“-you’re here, Arthur. That you’ve fallen isn’t up for debate. What’s remarkable is how many you managed to pull down with you, all because your mind couldn’t cope with its own fear. How many Arthur Flecks are there in the world? How many others are consumed by fear exactly the way you were?” 

“That brings me back to my original question,” The doctor began to flip through a stained manila folder. “What kind of person were you before the world taught you it was worth fearing?”

Arthur shrugged. “Nobody.” 

* * *

_ “-as one of Gotham’s most violent years comes to a close, citizens are embracing slow news days this holiday season. But officials are saying to stay frosty as the anniversary-” _

The radio cut off abruptly as the van came to a screeching halt. Arthur had gotten into the habit of not knowing where he was and not asking questions, if only because the answer never made any sense. This new world was simultaneously dreary and overwhelming. He closed his eyes and saw white cinderblock, as if his mind scrambled in vain to retreat itself. Despite it all, he couldn’t tell if this would be a dream or a nightmare. He moved himself with moderate freedom, and before departing what appeared to be a condemned warehouse, his captors freed him from the white jumpsuit; he now fashioned a less menacing albeit less clean navy colored hoodie beneath a beige coat, paired with worn trousers and dress shoes a few walks away from developing holes. When he took a hesitant move to wipe them, something dusty rubbed off on his finger to reveal faded leather beneath. 

Arthur’s attention turned to the figure sat directly adjacent to him. Undoubtedly they dressed better, in a well-tailored suit that clashed with the cartoonish colors of the clown mask concealing their features. Arthur didn’t care for it; its mouth contorted into a toothy grimace while the eyes comprised of two large burgundy rectangles. Two puffs of stupid looking blue hair protruded from both sides directly above the ear, setting something off inside of Arthur. Something about it seemed like nails on a chalkboard to his eyes. It took itself too seriously, in a way that inspired nervous laughter. The figure noticed his stare, tilting their head as if to draw attention to the gun placed across their lap. 

He looked away. 

The figures to either side were no comfort, one a burly beast of a clown while the other was smaller than Arthur that more than made up for their lack of height with one of the biggest guns Arthur encountered yet, and something shiny resting in a holster by their side. His hands were freed from cuffs, and though the raw imprints served as a reminder, the clowns packing heat seemed like a better incentive to behave than anything. 

Arthur’s attention shifted to the front of the van where he could see two silhouettes. One was more recognizable than anything since Arkham, with his hunched posture and grotesque features. His eyes traveled from the smooth purple velvet of the so-called Joker’s suit to the figure sitting beside him, another masked figure Arthur assumed to be a clown as only the red tip of the nose was clearly visible. A loud knock against the partition marked the end of Arthur’s exploration, as the figure adjacent to him sprung up and swung the van doors open. 

When the hulking clown to the right of Arthur nudged him with the business end of his gun, he stood and stumbled into a covered garage. The area seemed dimly lit- like the rest of the city to this point- however he could see countless clusters of light in the distance. Part of him wanted to run, to throw himself over the concrete wall where he could see the lively lights up close. He knew he wouldn’t make it far enough, but he didn’t mind that either. 

“You ready to go shopping, Arthur?” The largest goon laughed as the smaller one shoved him in the back with the barrel of his gun. 

“Can’t believe he clipped a guy on TV,” The smaller one spat, his voice somewhat muffled by the mask. “He’s such a pussy.”

Arthur’s breath first gathered in something like fear, until it turned bitter. Something stirred inside him; he felt sick, but kept it to himself. Their references were lost on him, and whatever he could recognize felt more like a dream than a memory. It was just far enough so that he knew that it happened, but not how it felt or how it looked. Even his memories lost color. His brows furrowed as his feet stayed planted on the ground until he was shoved once more. 

He turned his head to watch the driver’s side as they passed, seeing the Joker stick something into the inner pocket of his coat. Before he could look away the two shared a glance, and the toothy smile that came Arthur’s way did less to put him at ease than the ugliest look ever could. The passenger seat door closed on the other side, but Arthur’s gaze couldn’t be averted. 

The Joker approached him in what seemed to be his usual grotesquely confident stance, and despite the very public arena he seemed to have no problem standing around with a host of weapons on full display. Arthur did the worrying for him, until a cold glove collided with his cheek. 

“Your first night out of the cuckoo’s nest, old boy. It’s time to celebrate! I picked the best spot in Gotham.” The Joker’s laugh sounded more like a snarl, something that would’ve been an unthinkably kind gesture turned sinister with only a smile. They shared a stare until the Joker yanked his hand away, looking at one of the goons behind Arthur. “Which one are you?”   


“I’m Cooper.” The small one’s tone softened when he spoke to his employer. 

“Right. Escort our friend  _ Arthur _ here and make sure he finds exactly what we’re looking for. Make sure it’s,” He inhaled sharply. “Red.” 

“Sure thing, boss.”

“And you, Rocky-”

“It’s Rocco.” The large one interjected. 

“ _ Rocky _ .” The Joker corrected venomously. “Go help, ah,” He gestured at the large glass doors, glistening yellow from its contents. “Secure capital.” 

As the Joker moved to make his way the direction opposite the store, he stopped and turned on his heels. “One more thing. If our boy tries to run, break his legs. If he tries to fight, shoot him. Oh, but if you do kill him,” The Joker gave a reassuring smile. “Then I kill you.” 

“Yessir.” Cooper tried to stifle a laugh before he shoved Arthur once more. “Alright, let’s go shopping.” 

* * *

Arthur walked into stillness. He digested the scene as long as he could, feeling like he’d stepped into a television rather than another segment of his unending nightmare. It was a splendor unlike anything Arthur had ever known, evident despite the haze of his memories. He looked up to the huge chandelier, watching every tear-shaped piece of glass catch the light. When he inhaled, he could smell cinnamon and pine. Everything was made of marble, from the garland-wrapped pillars that seemed as tall as Arkham itself to the seemingly unending staircase, to the counter top that held countless trinkets and jewelry in glass casing beneath. The glistening finery caught his eye at first, if only because he’d just never seen anything like it. He nearly gravitated towards it, until another step forward revealed a slowly swelling pool of crimson and a dark figure crouched over it, eagerly removing heaps of jewelry from the display. 

Then he noticed the eyes. Countless pairs staring at him from makeshift hiding places, shooting looks worse than disgust. His chest tightened as he began to look more carefully and the horrific reality of the stillness took hold. Above all else, anger rose to the surface as their wordless stares evoked something he couldn’t recall. He felt it countless times, but he strained himself to remember when. With the cold barrel pressed against his back, he didn’t have much time to think about anything. They walked to total silence, with ambient music playing in the distance. As they neared the men’s section, Arthur saw a middle aged man duck behind a clothing rack while an older woman crawled behind a register. 

“What’s your name?” Cooper shouted at woman, gun still pointed to Arthur’s back. 

Silence answered him.

“I said,” Moving the gun towards the woman as she froze on all fours, Cooper tilted his head. “What the fuck is your name?” 

“Mary. My name is Mary!” She cried, unable to raise her head. 

“Okay, Mary. My friend here needs to get cleaned up. He needs a nice suit, red, in a size- ah, tall. Our budget- well,” He shook his gun at her. “Won’t be an issue.” 

“I-I don’t know if we have any-” 

“No fuckin’ red suits? It’s almost Christmas.” He gestured the gun towards a white door by the corner. “Check in there. There’s gotta be-”

Arthur flinched at the loud  _ bang _ , the silence that followed, and the sensation of something wet splattering against his face. He froze, as if all at once confronted with something heavier than the world. It thrust him back into a colored crevice of his mind, albeit one that didn’t feel like his own. 

_ ”I’ll tell you what you get,” A painted man screamed, his voice trembling with resentment and despair.  _

Arthur blinked and found himself back in reality. He couldn’t escape into his imagination, or memory- whatever that was. A silent tear trickled down his cheek and collided with the blood spattered below his eye. His hand went to his ear as a terrible ringing took over until he finally had the sense to fall back. He fell beside a cluster of racks, his gaze not falling far to meet with- Cooper, was it? With a gaping bloody hole where the mask didn’t cover. The sight of it all would’ve turned Arthur’s stomach if the fear that took hold wasn’t so quick.

He couldn’t see the shooter beyond a navy blue pair of pants, but he could hear their voice. They sounded afraid too. 

“Fuck!” The security guard trembled, clutching to his handgun as his huge eyes surveyed the space. “All of you stay down! If any of you thugs try anything I’ll shoot you, I swear. I fucking swear!” His voice broke as he turned in every which direction. “Stay right the fuck where you are and find out why Gotham isn’t afraid of you shitbags anymore. Don’t-” 

Before the guard could struggle to keep himself together for another agonizing moment, the glass doors gave way. Thousands of shards flew every which way, sending another ringing through Arthur’s ears that kept him from seeing the large plumes of smoke crawling towards the ceiling. Alarms sounded to no response beyond more noise by way of screaming. Arthur didn’t scream. Slowly, he extended one arm past the curtain of clothes, then another. It felt like forever until he found his way above the lifeless body, yanking the gun with all the clumsiness of a child shoplifting from a candy store. He looked up to see the woman’s eyes frozen on his face, and without saying another word he fell back and listened. 

* * *

The Joker strolled in, unburdened as his means of entry was handheld. Effective, too; the place looked as if it’d been showered by glass with the beginnings of an inferno at the base of the Christmas tree. Pristine shoes trampled over shards coating the marble floor, drawing a chorus of hushed gasps as he made his way further inside. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder and he contorted himself instinctively. Reaching into his coat, he fired a shot back. His landed into a security guard’s shoulder, the portly man falling back on himself as he clutched his shoulder. His gun skidded away, however he made no attempt to grab it as one hand went to the wound in his chest. Blood smeared against the pristine ground as he let out a string of hushed curses. 

Before the Joker made another move towards him, he looked to the side. The dipshit Cooper got a hole in his head, from a mall cop no less- he got what he paid for, he supposed. A cowering woman hid feet away from Cooper’s body, but nothing else. He turned his attention back to his assailant. The would-be hero of the evening. Cocking his head, he merely watched as he stood with one leg on either side of the guard. The man let out strained gasps as he found his strength. 

Faced with the gun in his attacker’s hand as the clown hunched over him, the security guard only glared as a forceful cough brought forth blood. 

“Act tough all you want,” The guard coughed. “All of you are the same. You all think you control the world because you know how to scare people-” Another cough, the spasm it induced bringing tears to the man’s eyes. What looked back at him couldn’t be entirely considered a man, but a fascinated listener nonetheless. “-but you don’t. Not anymore. We have a hero now, one who isn’t afraid of nobodies like you.” 

The Joker stood silently, black eyes peeking through black warpaint. He slid the revolver back into the pocket of his coat. His expression remained frozen in neutrality.

Arthur’s free hand went to his mouth when he heard an agonized scream, fearing it was his own. The broken glass that dug into his knees didn’t help. He crawled towards the gaping hole in the building’s entrance, trying to think beyond incomprehensible sounds of panic inside of his head and out. When another shot rang out, Arthur and anyone else with a semblance of a similar plan to his own dove into hiding. His spot of choice happened to be a kiosk by the jewelry counter, one that peddled the same product with a bullet hole between the eyes of its advertisement. It wasn’t until he neared its corner that he realized he wasn’t alone. Keeping balance on heels, a dark figure crouched as they sifted through what seemed to be a wallet with a handgun on the floor beside a sack. Arthur could make out a mask from behind, at once realizing it to be the unaccounted for passenger. He hoisted the gun nervously as if it was a long stick, slowly pushing it forward until the barrel met a mess of tied blonde curls. 

“Put your hands up.” Arthur whispered, expecting to instantly learn why it was a terrible idea to do anything but run. He wanted that to be the case. 

Instead, painted fingers slowly raised until both hands were in the air, still not a word passing between them. 

Until they turned their head.

As they peered over their shoulder, Arthur could make out the details of their mask. Red at the nose and overdrawn smile and blue at the eyes, it sent a tightness through Arthur’s chest. Why exactly he couldn’t tell, but he reacted to it like a child retrieving their blanket. 

“Take off the mask, now.” 

Their hands went carefully to the bottom of the mask, palms open all the while. Arthur looked around as he waited, seeing no sign of the Joker or anyone who seemed remotely interested in holding him back. When the mask was gone, extended casually towards Arthur, initially it was all he could pay any mind to. He almost wanted to smile, and he would’ve had he been alone. Looking up, he saw a goon of a different stock than Cooper. Her skin was pale, although quite clearly untouched by the trendy white paint, while her face was round with an upturned nose and thin albeit shapely lips. He looked into her blue eyes and the arched brows that framed them, feeling something stir inside of him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the time. 

"Give it to me-"

Whatever he wanted to say was cut off by the abrupt distant appearance of lights shifting rapidly from red to blue. Arthur recognized those more than easily enough, preparing to risk everything and run towards the way he came. Then the ground shook, and however close the cars might’ve been, any moves towards the store would’ve happened in pieces. Another was quick to collide with the wreckage, only adding to the fiery display. Arthur’s eyes grew huge as any plan he might’ve had went up in flames alongside the cars blocking the garage. There would be easier ways of seeking death than running through fire, if he craved it so badly. 

He cradled the mask in one hand but made no moves to put it on. 

With the explosion came another round of panicked screaming, admittedly only agitating Arthur instead of making him fear for them- or himself. 

“So,” A voice rose above the pandemonium, shaken only by the tremors of laughter. “Let’s raise the stakes. For every minute the Batman doesn’t show, I kill one of you. If he’s not here in ten minutes, I kill all of you.” 

Arthur’s face contorted. He couldn’t follow what he meant, but who was to say the Joker meant anything at all? The more Arthur thought, the angrier he became. The more his expression sank, the less he cowered. He wouldn’t play hero for this asshole’s amusement. Holding the mask, seeing the blank expression so ready to reflect his own, he felt different. He felt enough to know any move he made in this place would be in vain. He remembered enough to know-

Another deafening crack sent a hale of glass shards flying from the wall. The flurry outside wasted no time spilling in, although that seemed to be the least of anyone’s worries. Nobody screamed this time. Whatever broke the window, Arthur only noticed in his peripheral. 

“Oh fuck.” Seemingly without regard to the gun aimed in her direction or really any of the pandemonium going on around her, the woman scanned the room in a moment of clarity Arthur had yet to reach. Her eyes settled on a white door across the way, the same one his former captor discovered shortly before having his brains blown out. Before Arthur could raise his concerns, she sprinted through the scene and disappeared past the door nearly as quickly as he’d found her. 

“You might want to be more careful,” A shaky voice spoke to no one in particular. “One wrong step and I send this entire place sky high.” 

When he heard a loud  _ crash _ from the wall far opposite of the wall, he decided that would be his chance. Looking where the woman once joined him, he noticed the bag was gone but the gun remained. He looked at his own, bulky and heavy, and decided to switch. This one made his hand tremble, but he held onto his wrist until he could get another look at the door, 

Seemingly clear as it ever would be, Arthur weaved awkwardly between rows of clothing racks all the while grimacing at the pain in his knees and cradling the mask to his side. Rather than slam the door in the midst of a sprint, Arthur paid no mind to closing it. After a short run through a darkened room, the sharp, frozen air of night greeted him. He coughed. 

He looked around, and as much as he knew he shouldn’t, he looked around for her. 

But there was nobody. 

Looking both ways once more, Arthur tried to get himself together. He stumbled, paying no mind to his hands until he heard the unmistakable  _ pop  _ aimed towards the pavement. He jumped. This was Gotham, he’d heard it countless times; yet nothing was familiar. He had enough sense to get as far away as he could, but how far could he run? Fatigue already wore heavily on him, and despite the chill that immediately greeted him, beads of sweat stuck dark strands to his forehead right to the brow. He felt more exhausted with every breath, and it was only then that he remembered the blood still on his face. 

Only one place came somewhat close enough to a home for Arthur, and he remembered it now in cripplingly perfect clarity. As bitter tears found their way down his cheeks, he picked the emptiest route and kept walking. And walking. The ground shook and he kept walking. 

None of it made sense. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of an arthur-centric chapter ;) if you stan the joker, keep your eyes peeled for the next one! what would you all like to see going forward?


	3. Iceberg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend's been a bit hectic but I hope you guys enjoy :)

“Christmas comin’ early, boys.” One man spoke to half a dozen as they poured into a back alley. All of them donned the same getup: red vests worn over black button-ups, black trousers and polished black flats. A few distinguished themselves with a puffer coat, one with a black beanie, and another with a grim expression. 

“That’s not all.” The one in camouflage laughed. “Think the boss is gonna make good on the holiday discount he promised?” 

“Discount? Fuck that, get me a bonus and I’ll grab an expensive whore. Better than any of the old bags that wash up at the fucking Iceberg. Don’t even hold you after.” 

The one donning the beanie joined the chorus of hushed chuckling. He watched a truck as it slowly reversed through the compact alley, barely avoiding the dumpsters and copious mounds of garbage bags strewn about. The sun never peeked through this far inside Gotham, where the blocks coiled around on top of each other like blackened, putrid intestines. “This is the Joker’s monthly, right? How much you think it’ll be this time?” 

“The same,” The bald man in camouflage retorted. “More than you’ll ever make.” 

“Hey, fuck you.” While another man gestured for the truck to creep further, the beanie-wearing droog made his way towards it to force up the paneled door. He pulled it open and hardly had a silhouette revealed itself before he fell to the ground. Blood oozed from the crater in his head and soon the others had their weapons drawn. 

One by one they went, with the grimacing man’s face nearly lifting as he shot the man in camouflage. He squirmed when he fell, and feeling eyes on him the grimacing man moved on instinct. Standing over, feeling massive beside his former cohort. 

“Should’ve listened when I told you about the new gig,” He spat. “How’s this for a discount, asshole?” Although he anticipated pleads, part of him wished it wouldn’t happen. When it did, there was no time to hesitate, otherwise he’d find himself swiftly on the other end.

* * *

To call the Iceberg a hole in the wall would perhaps be too kind; rather, it was the black mold that festered and infected the entire house. Its own walls were rotting, its damask wallpaper peeling as the maroon curtains covering every entrance to the main lounge collected dust. A stage of worn wood began at the rooms far side and extended to its center, where it widened to a circle complete with two poles on either side. Topless women tended either side while more prowled the floor. Some rested in booths, lounging beside or seemingly on top of the rare patron that wandered in during midday. Music played only as ambiance as opposed to the mind-numbingly loud style of the evening. It paled in comparison to the night crowd when the married suits of Gotham would crawl out of their offices for a taste of typically non-lethal excitement. 

If ever the Iceberg could be considered a peaceful place, it would be during the afternoon on a weekday. Then a worker shrieked. 

“-I just need to talk to your boss,” The Joker kept walking and the hooker heading in the opposite direction kept walking, too. “Do you know where he is? I need to talk to him, it won’t take long. Just something small.” 

The music kept playing, the club keeping its composure as the Joker kept a steady pace. Of course he knew the man was here; it was only a matter of telling which arm of the maze the rat hid within. 

“No?” 

The wordless stares of whores as he passed told the Joker all he needed to know, and in truth was all he cared to see. He knew the look all too well; he knew it was the scars. He didn’t mind too much, as today’s crowd was quite homelier than usual, even for the Iceberg. Disappearing into one of the curtains, the Joker reached into his coat pocket. 

Painted fingers ran through a mass of raven-colored curls as two lithe frames held onto one another. One mouth opened to greet the other’s tongue as a pair hands slowly traced the small of their backs. The black haired woman’s hands found their way to the blonde tattooed woman’s breasts, where her fingers would slowly move along the shape of her areolas as they shared a soft exhale. 

“That’s it girlies,” The man’s thin dark lips curled into a double-chin smile. “Who wants to take their turn in the back room? Ain’t it your turn, Jade? Not so young as I used to be…” 

The women shared a hesitant glance until a loud  _ bang _ sounded against the door. 

“Fuck off, will you?” He growled. “I’m busy in here.” 

Another slam rang out, causing the door to buckle. 

“If you don’t get the fuck out-” 

The door swung open, hitting the wall with a smack. A guard stood posted in the open doorway in the open for a moment until they crashed to the floor. While they were hesitant before, the pair of women now screamed. They held themselves, gawking at the empty doorway. 

Before the large man still seated could speak, a shot echoed through the room and the guard posted behind him hit the ground. 

“I really thought a man like you would be a little more jolly.”

The voice alone raised the hairs on the back of Cobblepot’s neck. 

“Joker,” The penguin tried to recompose himself as the man in the spotless purple suit strolled in, retrieving the hat that took up the empty space beside him. “I don’t mind you, but you can’t come in here killing my men like that.” 

The pair of women remained on either side, unable to move. 

“My men.” The Joker corrected, taking the seat opposite of his host. “Seeing as I’ve been the one paying them. I figured it was time I cut out the middleman.” 

“Everyone pays their dues in this city. You decided on this, ah, alliance, and I know yours ain’t the normal way of doing things but I assumed you understood how these exchanges work. I might not mind you but this ain’t a charity.” 

The Joker’s dark eyes shifted around the room, settling on the women obstructing his view. “Good news, ladies: you have tonigh _ t _ off. But you, blondie, baby,” He licked his lips. “What’s your name?”

Hesitating for a moment, the lady looked to her black haired companion. 

“I said,” He snapped. “What’s your name?”

“Everyone calls me Birdie.” The blonde spoke hurriedly, all of a sudden aware that she only had on panties, fishnets, and stilettos. Aware wasn’t the right word; frightened was more like it. She looked to the fully clothed dead man on the floor, feeling a lump grow in her throat.

“Look at me.” He commanded, and to the woman’s surprise the Penguin did nothing in the way of stopping him or attempting to discuss the price of the territory they seemed to be entering. Tension seemed to be thick enough to choke on. 

Her blue eyes slowly raised to meet black. 

“You know,” Though the Joker’s voice relaxed, his posture remained upright. “You remind me of my girlfriend. Once I take care of her, you can give me a call, alright?”

Before she could formulate a response, he let out a laugh. 

“Here, take my card.” Extending his glove-covered hand, he held out a playing card. 

Her trembling hand went to reach it, and when curiosity won her over she swiftly turned it over. It was a joker card and nothing more. 

“Now get out.” 

The Joker barely finished speaking before the women rushed out as fast as their heels allowed them, both silencing screams as they stepped over the corpse in the room and saw the rest in the hallway. 

“I have something for you, too.” Reaching into his coat once more he withdrew a glock and unceremoniously pointed it towards the smaller man.

“Where do you get off coming in here, swinging that thing around?” His beady eyes narrowed. Something in the back of him began to grow nervous but he’d keep it back. “Don’t act like I’m doing you wrong for holding you to your end.”

“What about yours?” The Joker retorted sharply. “I knew you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, but I really didn’t think you would try and screw me. I give you guns, guys, money. And money. That’s all you care about. But when I give you everything and ask for half, you don’t think I know how much that half would be?” 

“If money’s no big deal to you, what’s it matter that I took a bit more off the top? I never knew how to say this, but seeing as you’ve no fucking manners,” The Penguin spat in return. “You’re not a popular bloke in this town. Working with you gets me more enemies than friends, believe me. Everyone thinks you’re,” While he hesitated when he saw the barrel of the gun waved, he took a steady breath. “Fucking nutty. You tell me I’m not trustworthy but you come in here shooting the men  _ you  _ paid for. Now you’re sitting here waving  _ that  _ in my bloody face. If it’s about the bit I took off the top, I’ll pay you back. But you don’t never come near here again.”

The Joker’s head tilted slightly as a quizzical look came upon his face. “It’s not about the money. You think money’s going to get you out of this?” 

“If it ain’t money, then maybe I can buy you some time.” The penguin’s eyes locked on the barrel. “That Arthur Fleck bloke, broke out of Arkham a week ago.”

The Joker let out a laugh.

“Once he gets out, once he’s on his feet- you won’t be long for this place.” 

Laughter abruptly came to a halt, the Joker’s expression sinking into cold neutrality. 

“Five years you been in this city, done nothing but made a fucking mess. Ain’t even killed the Bat.” The Penguin’s scowl intensified. “Everyone’s going to see what your word is worth, and it’s all over for you. When the real Joker stands up they’ll eat you alive. Nothing but a copycat-” 

Before the Penguin could finish, a shot rang out. It nearly grazed his ear, close to the point of setting off an unending ring that echoed in his head. 

“Jesus fuck!” The Penguin screeched, reaching to cover his ears. “Alright, alright. How’s this for a deal: you get the fuck out of here, and as thanks I don’t let you get killed by the time you get to the door. I put a bounty on your head bigger than anything this city’s ever seen, but I want you alive. Thinking you can come in here like a stupid fucking bell end. I give your girl back to Sionis, maybe we teach you some manners together. Cut both of you up into little pieces. You lost your right to anything quick. My patience is running thin, clown, so you best get the fuck out quick.” 

The Joker’s demeanor switched from cold rage to blankly inquisitive, and after a pregnant pause he offered a hushed response. 

“You know what’s coming.”   


“I’m not the one you want to kill.” The Penguin’s tone quickly shifted to edge towards desperation. “Fleck’s the one you should be worried about. Or Sionis. He’s the one who's got it in for you. To you I only have to be a businessman. What’s between us can start and end with a trip to the bank. ”   


“The bank.” The Joker repeated quietly, his lips slowly curving to match his makeup. 

Before the Penguin could continue, the phone beside him began to ring. He paused before slowly outstretching his covered hand. 

Then he fell back. 

The Joker stood up slowly, eyeing the phone with each drawn out step.  _ Ring, ring, ring _ , an unending urgency from a black telephone coated in crimson splatters. 

“Cobblepot,” A deep voice sounded on the other end. “My guys found him. They didn’t take him in yet, he got away before they got the chance. Couldn’t risk catching Batman’s attention, God knows the pigs are on edge enough. But they’ll try him again tomorrow. Did the other clown fuck drop off the cash?”

Silence. 

“Hello? Cobblepot, you there?” 

“No.”


	4. Bruce Wayne

“Sir,” A white haired Englishman spoke into the largely empty room. "Surely there are more beneficial ways to spend a Friday evening?"

“No.”

The hum of the police radio filled the space, a pit devoid of any natural light and illuminated only by the countless array of buttons and screens. To the uninitiated it was a marvel of technology; to Alfred it was a grotesque manifestation of guilt, an obsession that no amount of reassurance could falter. He’d long accepted that it was out of his control, but he didn’t stop trying to bring back the boy who seemed every day to be nothing beyond a figment of a spotty memory.

Alfred looked to Master Bruce, no longer the little boy so precocious and personable. He lurched over a console, heavy brows furrowed above dark eyes. Warm golden flecks filled his brown eyes, those same melancholic eyes that spilled truth where his lips always moved to deflect anything meaningful. Chocolate-colored curls fell just above his brows in such a way that any work put into maintaining such a style- and Alfred knew it indeed took considerable work, made no easier by his master’s late-night escapades- seemed nothing more than the result of fortunate genetics. A billionaire with every type of wealth one could conceive of.

“I try to be more delicate about such things,” Alfred began and took a step towards Bruce, briefly glancing at the endless information occupying the screen but just as quickly became disinterested. “But it’s been over a week-”

“Longer.” Bruce interjected curtly.

“You’re right. For over half a decade I’ve watched you disappear into the night and every time I pray you return. All the money in the world can’t protect you from what’s out there.”

Alfred’s tone grew apprehensive. “Neither can I. That doesn’t mean I won’t try, so I suppose in that way I’m as stubborn as you. I’ve aided you against, hm,” He took a brief pause, closing his eyes to a wistful sigh. “So many assassins I’ve lost count, though it does seem each new one comes with a more colorful gimmick than the last. That’s not counting the nameless scum of Gotham you maim every other night.” Ignoring the heaviness in his tone, Bruce’s eyes remained fixed on the flashing screen. “I recall there was a giant crocodile once. Do you remember how many stitches that one took? Or when a walking biohazard nearly did you in. Or that time you nearly froze-”

“I don’t need a lecture right now, Alfred.”

“It’s not a lecture. I’m begging you, Bruce. There are some doors that don’t need to be opened. That business with Harvey Dent wasn’t your fault-”

“I could’ve saved him and I didn’t, what else do you call it?” Bruce’s tired eyes didn’t leave the screen as his thoughts bounced from one unwelcome memory to the next, but everything ended at the gates.

“It was a sign and it might be the last one you get,” Alfred said. “This city does things to people. The only thing you can do is look out for yourself and try to find peace. Don’t let this consume you. This,” Even the name felt heavy on Alfred’s lips as the encounter flew into the forefront of his mind. “Arthur Fleck business. It’s going to destroy you and I promise it won’t make a difference to a man like him.”

“It never made a difference to,” Bruce’s face contorted. Great, now there were two of them- there always was technically, but Arthur Fleck seemed as real to him as a nightmare. “_The_ Joker. I’m not in this to protect a murderer, but until I figure out what the Joker has planned with him, he poses a threat to Gotham. This city won’t survive another night like that.”

“For all the work you’ve done, it wouldn’t.” Alfred said quietly, grimly. “They’re animals, Bruce. I wish you’d just allow them to eat each other. As for Fleck, I knew exactly who he was the first time I laid eyes on him. When he dragged himself to the gates of your home, when I saw him standing there so pitiful, I knew he was a ghost of a man. I might’ve pitied what he endured, but the things he’s done are unforgivable.”

Bruce’s gaze fell as the corners of his lips pulled into a scowl.

“He’s been in Arkham for fifteen years. Had it been a prison break, perhaps I would share your concern. But Arkham, the things that place does to people- the funds you’ve put into that place to make it so- _the_ Joker might’ve found himself a novelty but I promise he’s a huddled mess at best.”

Bruce’s knuckles went white as he gripped the panel, allowing the pregnant pause to hang over him until the cave became drenched in red light. He released the metal and quickly made his way away, paying little mind to Alfred who followed him.

“Arthur Fleck is a broken man and nothing more.” Alfred pleaded.

Bruce traversed a grated walkway before entering a space that seemed more like a room proper, with a clear tube at its far side. With the press of a button its insides turned, revealing a dark suit illuminated by spotlights. It was black throughout, with a slightly raised bat emblem at the breast. Its suit was a blend of metal and sturdy material, and behind it like a heavy black mass was its cape. Alfred found the thing to be just as ugly now as the first time he saw it. More than anything, he saw the empty monstrous suit and a little boy standing beside it.

“You don’t have to do this, Bruce.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

* * *

Commissioner Gordon watched from his perch next to the signal, exhaling a puff of smoke as its shining light cut a hole through the darkness above. He tried to utilize the blinding light sparingly and leave the Batman’s involvement to his own discretion, but as the weight of years grew heavy on his shoulders he knew when to admit he was drowning. Flicking the cigarette to the ground, he waited for the city’s reluctant savior to show up.

A light _woosh_ sounded behind him. Gordon didn't bother turning around, just giving a nod in the general direction. "It’s getting worse out there. Cobblepot got clipped."

The Batman walked up beside the commissioner. "I know. Any suspects?”

If Gordon had been any less used to the scratchy way the masked man spoke, he might’ve been taken aback at the sound. As it was, he could only sigh. "I don’t know. I went in with some guys, we tried to shut the place down and get some answers.”

“And?”

“Well, the bartender wouldn’t talk. Asked a hooker and she said she was with one of ours during. I asked which one,” He sighed. “Said she couldn’t remember whose turn it was.”

"Whoever did this wasn’t trying to be quiet about it. It’s sloppy.” The Batman looked into the night, fatigue evident in his eyes. “In the middle of the day with witnesses everywhere.”

Gordon gave a nod. "Sounds desperate."

Batman gave a look at Gordon, observing him from behind the mask. "Sounds like someone with nothing to fear. Arthur Fleck broke out of Arkham recently. There's two of them now.” Disgust grew palpable in his voice.

"That's why we need you," Gordon admitted, the name hitting him like a brick. "The problems Fleck caused the first time nearly killed us. Now he's back, and it’s not like the rest of them are going away. We're going to have our hands full with the same thugs, on top of the other one and now his shtick. We don't have the manpower to survive this alone. Another riot like that and we’re dead."

Gordon reached inside his coat and pulled out a file, handing it over. "This has what we know, though you probably know most of it already. Keep in touch."

He looked back out at the city, and when he looked back the Batman had already left.

The contents of the folder were already seared into Bruce’s memory. Gotham City’s frigid night air brought tears to his eyes as his cape billowed behind him, gliding over the cityscape that resisted sleep. His thoughts returned to the gate, to the pair of hands gripping his mouth and pulling. He nearly mimicked as a reflex. Instead his lips fell further into a grimace. He watched the figures as he passed, all huddled in threadbare caps and other worn winter clothes. The nicer blocks dressed for the holidays but more often he found himself in the uglier parts, with the now-obliterated department store being an obvious exception. He passed cluster after cluster, paying no mind until a patch of green caught his eye. From his height, and perhaps due to the distance it caused, he saw a painted expression. It made his backbone shiver and he froze, unable to look away as he traversed the air seemingly in slow motion. When finally he blinked, he opened his eyes to nothing.


	5. Arthur Fleck

Droplets of rain crashed against the concrete steps as Arthur trudged over them, one by one. He’d been here before; hearing the sounds of distant shouting and train screeching, breathing in the damp, musty air, looking up to the same gray sky that seemed to be more unmovable than skyscrapers. He looked up when he reached the landing, paying no mind to the puddle that engulfed his worn shoes. The rain couldn’t drench him more than it already had. Time slowed into the agonizing crawl it’d become at Arkham, with every day bleeding together into a series of identical motions. Instead of a white room, he had a lifeless city. It seemed almost sterile, despite the copious amounts of garbage both human and otherwise. 

The busiest streets were controlled by an invisible puppeteer, forcing the same people moving to the same places day in and day out. Arthur blended so well into the scene that he appeared as no more a living thing than the countless buildings he passed. Unfriendly, uninterested in the disorientation that defined his earliest time in the streets. Not that he would’ve offered anything beyond a short, snippy response to any would-be helpers- at least that’s what he told himself, but he would’ve at least appreciated the gesture. He would look over his shoulder every now and again with the weight of past encounters weighing heavy on his heart. 

Heaviness; that’s what guided him. The closest thing to “home” he ever knew, with the growing stretch without medication making the reality of his so-called home painfully clear. With each passing night the medication’s fugue lessened, and the chain of events that lead him to that point would repeat over and over, always starting with a moment that he imagined must’ve felt like birth. Everything was white, with a nameless figure telling him his name, who he was, and how he got there. The getting there portion was what ate at him most, something that came only in flashes when he made himself as small as possible. 

Arthur felt very small when he stood in the shadow of a derelict building. Its windows were either smashed, boarded up, or existed as mere holes in the wall. Enough of its skeleton remained that Arthur understood it to be his. He walked another length of concrete stairs, stopping at the top to look back. Nothing. That same nothing greeted him when he opened the large front doors by pushing one, which by now appeared to be comprised mostly of hastily-conjoined planks of wood as opposed to its original construction. The first floor would be the most off-putting not merely due to the excessive and often hostile graffiti. Its dirty linoleum was covered in broken glass, discarded bottles and needles, a caged area once meant for mail hosting nothing but trash. The stench made his nose burn. Every part of Arthur Fleck had been left to decay, so it wasn’t a surprise when he opted not to test the elevator- although the idea of plunging to his death as soon as he reached his desired floor made something inside of him smile- and instead took the equally filthy stairs. But he would look to the elevator once more, wishing in vain that its doors would creak open. Something sweet would be there, although he couldn’t visualize who. Sometimes her voice sounded realer than his own. 

Memory was a peculiar thing, made stranger still when he instinctively knew how many flights he needed to traverse. He would stop and stare at a door that he knew wasn’t his own, wanting so badly to open it. But he knew if he did the disappointment would bring him to the brink of death, just not the sort of death he wanted. Not the merciful kind, the kind that eliminated every burden that weighed him down for so long. He would be forced to look into the abandoned space and know that its occupant was long gone, far and away and not sparing a single thought about him. 

He opened the door and slammed it shut. Then he kicked it, and felt the old wood threaten to give. 

His was a space of peeled wallpaper, sparse furnishings, and broken glass. Rodents too, probably, if he cared to look. He didn’t. The first room seldom held his attention aside from brief glares towards the tattered remains of a couch surrounded by hurled bricks in every direction. It was a hole in the window that caught his eye, looking large and more aggressively widened than it had during his previous return. The television no longer worked, and to his chagrin he’d toyed with it for a bit before realizing it never would.

Still in his soaked clothes with the shoes already discarded, he peeled off his jacket and let it fall behind him. His shirt followed suit and then his pants, to free his flaccid cock and the copious dark, wiry hairs that surrounded it. He sat on the cold floor and crossed his legs, feeling fragments of glass cut into his thighs. His figure never grew beyond skeletal, with his time at Arkham and subsequent grifting doing little in the way of changing that. There was a comfort in it, of being as small as he felt. His eyes said more than could ever be put into words, but staring into the black television they slowly became liberated of all meaning and left vacant. 

“So, Arthur,” Murray Franklin’s fingers played on the desk as he looked to his guest, blood and brain matter seeping from the hole in the side of his head. It was all over the wall behind him, spraying the illuminated presentation of his name in big, obnoxious lettering. “What’s kept you back for so long? We’ve been losing our minds for a comeback!”

The drum player let out a _ badum-tss _. 

“Thank you, Murray.” Arthur sat on a plush seat, one leg crossed over the other. His suit was a darker shade of red with yellow and teal beneath, his face the most spectacular display of color. His face was painted white with an exaggerated, sloppy red turning his lips into a smile, with two inverted triangles beneath his eyes that might’ve held a shape had tears not smudged it to the point of bleeding into the red paint. Tears were still in his eyes, surrounding the green with red and that was the most vibrant color of all. His hair wasn’t a mop of brown, but the color of muted green. “Well, I made a bit of a mess.” 

The audience laughed. 

“And they gave you such a headache about it!” Murray looked to the camera, a particularly thick clot slinking down his face. “Has it made you regret everything you’ve done?” 

“No, not at all.” Arthur confessed, smiling through tears. 

“At least you have original material now, and we all can’t wait to see it.” With Murray’s encouragement the audience gave a sympathetic sound and Arthur’s small, trembling smile returned. “This whole turn of events has me surprised, really. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just die where they sent you? That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yes, Murray. I’d give anything not to feel the way I do.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” Murray looked on with concern that might’ve once touched Arthur, but now earned a sneer at the perceived condescension. 

“I’m going to do what I do best: nothing.” Arthur took a shaky inhale, followed by a laugh. “But I do have broken glass everywhere,” A would-be mischievous tone took over his voice to be met with disapproving sounds by the audience. “I think it’s better that I’m out. I do wonder if anyone missed me. Nobody missed who I was.” 

“So tell me, Arthur, why’d you break yourself out?” 

“I didn’t. I got help.”

“A fan?” Murray’s brows raised. 

“I think so. I hope not,” Arthur’s hand went to his face, some of the red paint on his nose smearing on his face. He cried as his leg trembled. “I hate him. I hate how he looks and I hate what he’s done. He’s no different than the rest of you, maybe even worse. So rude and awful, he waved a gun in my face before he introduced himself. He beat me. He tied me to a radiator and laughed at me. Humiliated me like you did, Murray.” 

The audience gasped. 

“Does that mean I can expect company soon?”

“Maybe.” Arthur’s hand fell to his lap. “I’m not really a fan of his routine. Plus, he stole my act.” A sad, stifled laugh escaped his lips. “None of you cared about me. Maybe he does, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t need anyone anymore,” His pained words took on a venomous tone. “My whole life, I didn’t think I existed. Nobody gave me a second thought, nobody thought for a fucking second what it was like to be the other guy. Not until I showed them what it felt like. All of a sudden, everyone’s so upset! Suddenly everyone cares about what happens when they push someone too far, not because they care about another human being, but because they’re afraid!” He scowled. “I’m not afraid anymore. I’ve had my bad day, and now I only care about what I want.”

The audience let out a collective “aww”.

“And what is it you want, Arthur?”

“I just want everyone to know who I am.” He shrugged, blinking back tears. “Oh, and didn’t I tell you to call me _Joker_ ? Come on, Murr-ray,” Joker swallowed and continued. “Sometimes, Murr-ray, I’m still miserable, and everyone around me is still miserable, too. I feel so alone it hurts. I wish I could be as lucky as you, and just be done with it all. But I’m not.” Joker’s eyes slowly moved to the host. 

As Murray laid back, mouth agape as a slow trickle of blood escaped his head, a hushed chorus of screams came from the audience. 

Arthur took in the scene, feeling his legs tremble furiously. 

“My name is Joker and everyone who forgot has it coming.” He mumbled. 

Whatever the audience did, he paid no mind. He skipped closer and closer until the stage closed in on itself, where he could only see his distorted reflection in a camera lens. 

“Just remember,” He smiled as a slick streak of blue made its way further down his face. “That’s life-”

A tear made its way down Arthur’s cheek as he stared at the empty screen. He could feel the bitter cold through the gaping hole in the windows as he heard the old building’s skeleton rattle. Looking out to the quickly darkening sky, the emergence of lights in the distance caught his eye. He stood up and moved from the window. This place had been small in its lifetime, but the dark and dinginess made it seem as if it would collapse in on itself at any moment. The world outside played to a continuous rhythm but here the condemned block waited, forgotten, a black hole in Gotham’s skyline. Arthur moved across the space slowly, considerate of the residents below who no longer existed. Only a few paces until he reached the apartment’s sole bedroom, which by now decayed into nothing but a sunken bed frame. Arthur fell into it as he’d done countless times before. His naked body curled against what remained of his earthly possessions: a glock, a gutter flower disheveled and shedding its fake petals, a broken ceramic cat miniature, and a mask. 

Arthur laid inside the bed frame, setting the other items aside and gripping hold of the mask. Even among the stench of his former home’s corpse, it reeked of a perfume that was too sweet. Powdery, almost; freshly alive in a place that felt long dead, growing fainter with each passing day. His nostrils ignited at the scent and he felt it on the inside, too. The scene of its acquisition replayed every time he held the mask to his face, hovering just above his face as he slowly remembered and relished in what its paint represented; precisely who truly haunted the derelict apartment. 

* * *

Arthur abandoned his apartment by the time Gotham relied entirely on the aid of streetlights, most of which weren’t posted anywhere near the condemned site, a tiny black hole in a city that was so overrun by occupants it could only swell upwards. He had no other choice but to slip back into the damp clothes he’d previously discarded, a panging inside of him wishing for help he knew better than to hold out for. Help never existed down here. His jaw trembled as each step made Arthur aware of just how bitterly cold it was outside, beyond the muddied mounds of slush on either side of the sidewalk. His mind wandered, his thoughts falling back on themselves. Considering all that seemed to go down in shops these days, would a few missing tops and undergarments cause a stir? Would he mind much if it did? 

Impossible as it seemed, sometimes misery could be mind-numbingly dull, made worse with each passing day. He moved further into the city while furiously debating with himself on the inside. It didn’t have to be violent, certainly not in the same sense as that greasy jackbooted fuck, and it would only be small things. He reached into the damp insides of his coat, slowly withdrawing his hand and resting it in a nervous fist at his side. His neutrality sank into a frown as he clumsily traversed blocks of garbage and slush. As he neared one of Gotham’s many hubs, he first passed dense streets populated exclusively by the kind of people who could only exist at night. Countless women, each prettier than the last, walked by him or watched him from their posts. He felt most envious of the nicotine between their fingers but he knew from another lifetime it wouldn’t do any good to approach without the means of compensation. Other figures weren’t so lively, fallen against brick buildings or huddled in clusters, never far from a single man who constantly seemed to be looking in all directions. They weren’t all the same; every now and again Arthur saw someone who looked distinctly out of place, perhaps more so than him, watching as they’d nervously move about until scurrying back to their fancy cars. He disliked those the most. 

People watching only satisfied him for so long until the emptiness returned and he kept walking. Arthur heard the jingling of bells, catching his attention enough to stop him in front of an alley. He cocked his head and looked into the darkness. The _ jingle, jingle, jingle _ grew nearer, and he wasn’t so foolish as to head into the unknown, but that didn’t keep him from stopping in a bad part of town. After a pause, an orange cat emerged, its loose-fitting collar being the source of the soft commotion. Arthur smiled. He would’ve fed it if he had anything to give, plus it looked robust enough. 

“I’ve never met a street cat like you.” He spoke quietly, the faint smile keeping on his lips. 

The two shared eye contact until the feline’s head whipped around and it bolted towards the street.

“Hey-” Arthur shouted after it before taking a look around himself. Nothing. He watched the thing take off into the night. His eyes settled on an empty spot in the street, feeling all of a sudden empty himself. Empty wasn’t the right word; there was enough left to hurt. 

When he neared a nicer portion of the city, he began to feel distinctly out of place. In part due to how sudden the atmosphere shifted, despite feeling worlds apart by design- this kind of city had a sense of time, with each storefront adorned with seasonal decor and an unspoken assurance that the massive windows didn’t act as an invitation to the kind of people this city created- the “wrong” kind. What everyone seemed so certain was wrong, with the endless assertion that _ they _knew best because they were the right kind. Despite the cheery atmosphere, something about it choked him. He hated it. 

It felt untouchable, unaware, and unbearably serious. Boring. 

In his pockets, out- Arthur’s hands froze all the same as he continued walking towards nothing in particular, wishing for socks that didn’t release water out with every step. He exhaled a smooth vapor and choked on the next inhale. It was the nicest street thus far, but the emptiest. His body shook but he wasn’t sure what of it came from the cold. His thoughts turned pointed, enraged about something he couldn’t put into words. A string of curses fell from his mouth. He fell against a brick column, bringing his head against the brick in a slow rhythm. 

“You’re a hard guy to find, Fleck.” 

It was a deep voice. An ugly voice. One thick with an accent distantly familiar to him. What he could remember turned his thoughts red, just enough to bring him pause as his arm stayed above the rest of him and he slowly turned to look around. He didn’t have long to react before a fist collided with his face, and once his body fell back to the ground he felt a sharp kick against his back. 

A fat man towered over him surrounded on either side by more men in suits. One held a crowbar, and all dressed in immaculate suits with equally dressy shoes. They took turns kicking with their pointed shoes until Arthur tightened into a loose fetal position, taking pained breaths but shedding no tears. 

“Easy, easy. Boss wants him brought back alive.” 

“A little wake up call won’t kill him,” The smaller one snickered. “He needs a workout, all those years in the cuckoo’s nest got him out of shape. Fucker went down like nothing.” 

“God,” The last one watched with interest. “Sionis really wants to build himself a freak show, don’t he?” He delivered another kick before turning his attention to the larger comrade. “All this and he don’t even look like a clown.” 

“It was a pain in the ass, but I told boss I’m his boy-” 

The man’s head erupted in red and he fell to the ground. 

“Holy fuck!” The short one shouted, too stunned by the brain matter covering his face to run. He moved, but just as quickly fell to the pavement. Another shot rang out and he stopped twitching. 

“Shit,” The one remaining looked around and realized their choice of an empty street backfired spectacularly. He wanted to run, but as the target-turned-assailant curled against a brick pillar, he could see the barrel pointed directly at him. “You didn’t have to do all that! We weren’t gonna hurt you bad I swear, Sionis ain’t even gonna hurt you! He wants you, Arthur-”

With the mention of a name, Arthur’s trembling finger grabbed ahold of the trigger and squeezed. His breathing hadn’t slowed before reality came crashing down. He looked to the gun in his hand then back to the assortment of bodies around him, shoving the thing back into his wet jacket and booking it. Adrenaline directed him, denoting no particular path besides _ away _. His worn soles smacked against the pavement as his breaths turned to gasps and a ringing echoed in his ear. 

“_Hey! _” The ringing sounded like, growing more distant with every sprint. Arthur looked over his shoulder anticipating his end, only to be met by a lone figure. He stopped and gasped for air, saying nothing to them as his lungs burned and his body shook. His trembling hand nearly made its way to his coat when he took them in and knew at once they’d already met before. His brows furrowed and his hand kept moving. 

She raised her hands once more, but it seemed so different now; seeing her standing alone on a black street and looking like a human instead of nameless tormentor, hearing her voice and feeling her presence. He couldn’t remember what she looked like, but Arthur felt as if she looked different this time. “Don’t pull that shit with me,” She looked to his concealed hand. “You ain’t long for this place if you treat every time like the first time. Just breathe, okay?”

Arthur’s breath caught when she took a step towards him, not moving his hand from his jacket. He didn’t move from where he’d planted himself. “What do you want?” Instinctively he looked around, searching for proof they weren’t alone. 

“For starters, I’d like to talk without having a gun pointed at my face,” She took another step. “But we also really, really need to go.”

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going back to _ him_.” 

“I’m not going back to him neither.” Her voice lowered, like a child getting caught. “I got somewhere, and if we don’t get there soon we’re both gonna be eating shit.” 

“Why should I believe you?” Arthur threw one question after another, each full of accusations and no sense of urgency. “You never did anything to help the entire time I was tossed around. Then you let me get beat up, for what? Why should I trust someone who lets me get hurt? I want answers! I’m so sick of not understanding what’s going on.” 

“If I wanted things to go bad for you, things would be a lot worse right now. I really tried to keep my distance. It wasn’t easy, you’re like a fish out of water. There’s a lot you don’t know about, and that ain’t all your fault- we just can’t have the talk out here, okay?” Her eyes looked into his. “Look, worst-case scenario you’re fucked no matter what you choose. But if you stay here you will be totally fucked and I won’t be around to bail you out.”

Arthur took one more look around and made his choice.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...maybe ;)
> 
> In all seriousness, I haven't decided how far I want to take this story. Would it work better as a standalone, or would you guys want to see more? I am so thankful if you've stuck with me to the end, I hope you enjoyed!


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